"You met me at a very strange time in my life." – Fight Club

Like Samuel L. Jackson in Wal-Mart

Here’s Buck, motorcycle enthusiast. I’ve never inserted my opinion on this, and now I don’t have an opinion on it.

Buck has seven motorcycles and he rides them all the time. I have no say in this and, frankly, because in a healthy relationship you really have to pick your battles — give and take andall that — this is one battle I never even took up. Buck loves motorcycles, he’s not stupid about them, and I stay out of it. Probably some readers will wonder how I can stay out of something that could potentially effect me just as much as it effects him. But were he to say to me, “No, I will not tolerate a dog, much less three or four,” I would die a little inside. Because that’s part of who I am, I’m a goofball for dogs. He’s a goofball for motorcycles. So think of it that way, consider something you love and are passionate about, and how you would feel if your partner took it away. That’s why I stay out of it.

So Buck rode his Honda into the city on Wednesday and before I go on, let me say that he’s fine, he’s okay. But he got hit by a car . A car driven by somebody who apparently did not see him. This is a huge danger for a motorcyclist, being invisible to cars. It’s as though a driver won’t even see a motorcyclist, or if they do see you, they assume there are different laws for motorcyclists and they never have the right of way. I don’t know what the problem is, but it’s a problem.

Anyway. Buck got hit by a car and, in his typical pig-headed way, refused to let the bike fall to the ground. This is a perfect example of why we in our family believe Buck is capable of just about anything. How many people could be riding along on a motorcycle, get wacked by a car, and keep the bike upright?

So he fought to keep the bike upright, wrenching his back in the process. The bike was damaged from the impact with the car, and the driver of the car sped away completely unaware (or uninterested, which is more like it, and rather typical here). Buck was pretty shaken up, and the bike was no longer rideable but it hadn’t fallen to the ground, which was what Buck really cared about.

Cut to three hours later. Red Sox Nation is alive and well in El Paso, Texas. I’m sitting in front of the TV waiting for Game 1 of the World Series to start. I’ve got my talismans all lined up, my incense burning, my knitting in my lap (I’m knitting a pair of red socks, my version of a prayer shawl) and Buck comes in the door. Having been driven home by a friend, he limps directly over to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a shot of tequila, and calls into the living room to say, “I got hit by a car.”

Some people say that when I’m freaking out, I most resemble a chicken. And because I flap my wings and run around in a circle, I probably do. I did this then, went into my crazed-chicken mode, forgetting about the Red Sox, The World Series, my dignity, etc. “And what I need you to do,” Buck said, pouring a second shot and watching me squawk and flap , “is go to Wal-Mart and get me some Prilosec. I’m all out, and I can’t eat anything till I take some. I’m starving.”

So I grab my pocketbook and the keys, run outside at top speed and fling myself up and into the truck and take off. Like a lunatic. I get to Wal-Mart and it’s packed. PACKED. Millions and millions of shoppers flooded the aisles and everybody is looking at me and parting like the Red Sea. Which is weird, because I’m generally invisible here in Texas. Tiny little abolitas in wheelchair carts nailed the gas (or whatever) to get out of my way, parents ushered their dozens of children to the side of the aisle, a young man grabbed his girlfriend and pulled her into the donut display, an old man shuffling alongside of me suddenly stopped and insisted I pass. They’re all getting out of my way and staring at me, and I don’t even care. I just want the Prilosec.

But then, once I had the Prilosec in my hands, I suddenly realized, You know what? He’s okay. He’s fine. I bet he’d like some fudgesicles, some peanuts, and any other goodies I can put in his hands as I remove the tequila bottle he’s undoubtedly clutching.

So I grab some crap and stuff it into a basket, and I stop some Wal-Mart employee in the aisle and I start questioning him about their stock. But he has this horrified look on his face while I’m talking to him, and I thought it was because I was so distraught that my accent must be the problem, I was too shook up to bother enunciating like a newscaster. What I said was this:

(Tip: When reading this in your head, do not make the mistake that so many do when imitating a New England accent and that’s pausing or dragging out the words. We do not pause or linger over words, we just breeze right through the sentence at what is probably a break-neck speed compared to the rest of the country, and that in itself may be part of the problem.)

I said, “Does Wal-Maht only carry stuff with sugah? ‘Cuz ovah in tha freezah all y’got right now ah the fudgesicles with sugah. My husband will eat those, he likes ’em okaaaay, but he prefers the kind without sugah. He’s not diabetic, he just likes ’em.”

And the guy looks down at his feet. Seeming to not understand a word I just said, he walks away!

So I just grab the fudgesicles with sugar and dash over to take my place as number 17 in the Fast Checkout line. Standing and standing, waiting and waiting, surrounded by people still giving me weird looks. I start thinking about my roots, and how maybe they’re looking at me because I’m so overdue for a hairdressing appointment. But there are people around me whose roots look worse than mine, with over-processed hair and some with no hair at all. And then it hits me. Holy shit, I’m on display in the middle of Wal-Mart wearing my Motherfucker shirt.

Now. I’m not the complete A-hole that everyone thinks I am. Sure, I believe that swears are just words and too many people make too big a deal out of them, I don’t fully trust anyone who makes a practice of never swearing no matter what, and one of my favorite books is English As A Second F*cking Language by Sterling Johnson. But I’m cognizant that this isstrictly my opinion and I don’t force it on people or go out of my way to shock them. I don’t swear around children (under 16) other than my own, and I don’t wear this shirt, or any of my other hilariously offensive apparel in public (such as Bound and Gags’Nahfuket T-shirt with the map of Nantucket on it). The shirt pictured, the one I had on in Wal-Mart, is something I wear around the house because it makes Buck smirk, kind of underscores the fact that living in Texas we have no friends to drop by unexpectedly, and it’s a direct quote from Lindsey Lohan, who mumbled this when she was stumbling drunk and the paparazzi asked her if she was okay. Plus, I’m not an A-hole, but I am a jerk, so what can I say?

Whatever. The point is that I would never have worn this to Wal-Mart had I not run thoughtlessly out of the house like a lunatic. That’s my post for a Saturday blog and I’m sticking to it.

Buck, by the way, really is fine. Here he is wearing two bathrobes (because the temperature has dipped here in El Paso) marveling at the power of static cling in regards to packing material.

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12 Responses

Well, I’m glad Buck’s OK. I hate Walmart so much that I refuse to shop there.I am sure they had a help in putting my store out of business by selling their cheap ass vitamins at such low prices. Unfortunately, in the vitamin business you get what you pay for. So I’m Glad you wore your Motherfucking T shirt there. As a matter of fact I’d like to get a T-shirt that says I hate Motherfucking Walmart. With that out of my system I would like to add that all that packing material used to drive me nuts when I had the store. One day we were getting a delivery and the delivery guy dropped a box on Main Street just as a cop when by. The box broke and it was windy and all the styrofoam pellets flew onto the windshield of the cop car. The cop stopped and made the delivery guy pick up every single one of those pellets. The cop stayed and watched him do it. It was sort of funny. The pellets kept sticking to everyone who passed by and it was windy and the poor delivery guy spent hours chasing pellets down the street. It even held up traffic for awhile.

@ Joan Harvest – What a photo op those styrofoam pellets must have been! I’m shocked it didn’t end up on the front page of the Enterprise. And that the guy didn’t get beaten with a billy club. I love your T-shirt idea, I’d wear that one in a heartbeat.

I started laughing at ““Does Wal-Maht only carry stuff with sugah?” and haven’t stopped since.

The shirt is fantastic. I’d like to get my mother one that says, “Yeah, motherfucker, I worked for Wal-Mart for over twelve years, and getting to wear this shirt after I retired was the best part of the whole deal.” She’d love it. She didn’t work in the stores; she slaved away behind the scenes for one of their divisions. Still…the sentiment’s the same. It’s all an evil empire.

But I’m even happier you got out of Wal-maht alive with that shirt on. You’re lucky their secret police (code name: Blackorder) didn’t swoop down from aisle 6 (lemon juice, fat back and kidnapping). I bet even the greeter shunned you!

Now that’s a survival story!

And you are 100% correct, it’s less the accent (which does not sound like Kennedyesque. It’s just them. They teach it on the compound) and more the speed.

That was proven to me when I was a kid and we moved from Dorchester (a section of Boston) to Melrose (15 miles, but a whole new world, away). I had to slow waaaaayyyy down to be understood. But, it was good training for when I started traveling.

I got stressed out hearing that he’d wrenched his back by preventing the bike from falling. Glad he’s fine.

Now I know why my daughter loves Wal-Mart. I’d never made the sugar connection before. Thanks so much for that one. 🙂

I agree with you about picking the battles. I hope to someday find someone to hang with on a semi-permanent basis and I hope to God that they have their own passions and that it’s not 100% me. That’d be really boring after about two days – if that.

I’m so glad Buck is okay. I hate it when Craig goes out on his bike, and like you, I’ve never said anything. Craig’s a good driver, aware of the lunatics in cars, but still, I worry.

By the way, Craig has said many times that to people driving cars, bike riders are apparently invisible. What the hell’s up with that?

I meant to comment on your Buck’s Dreams post but never did. I often dream of nuclear holocausts, horrible violent dreams in which bombs are exploding all over what’s left of the earth and I’m alone wandering the wastelands, trying to avoid the bombs. I blame the nuns. They scared the crap out of me with their tales of divine retribution; my holocaust dreams, I believe, are a direct result of their terrifying teachings.

@ Emily – I do like that shirt. But I’m sure I horrified all the shoppers.

@ MBMQ – Your mother should have a shirt like that. Now you know what to get her for Christmas.

@ Bound and Gags – I have friends from both Dorshester and Melrose and I’ve never noticed a difference in their accents. Must be a regional thing. YES on the Red Sox, my stomach has been in knots for days. I’ve been screaming at the TV, which Stella doesn’t really approve of, but screw her. And that wasn’t much of a plug for your shirt. This is a better plug: Get your Nahfukit Shirts Here:http://www.cafepress.com/boundandgags.177632775

@ Little Miss – Yeah, it took me a very long time to figure out you have to pick your battles. Life becomes much simpler. I hope you find someone great real soon.

@ Barbara – CATHOLICS! See what they’ve wrought? I do love when you and Buck get going on your Catholic upbringings, though. I guess I should thank Blessed Saint Somebody for the fodder, however. And the cool Catholic junk I’ve collected. And you too! Your top-of-the-line exorcism kit rules. I’m jealous, but at least I know who to call in a Satanic pinch.

And yes it’s true about motorcyclists, they are invisible to drivers. It’s very bizarre and something that most drivers aren’t even aware of. I hate that aspect of it.

You’re not gonna like this, but I lost my right arm in a really bad motorcycle accident. Some lady making a left-hand turn cut me off, then slammed on her brakes (not that it would have done me any good had she kept going, that’s how bad the cutoff was) when she realized halfway through her turn that there was a big ol’ van in the lane next to me.

So yeah, I slam into her at about 45 mph. My right hand was gripping the brake so hard, it never let go, thus the mess-o’-pottage that reigned upon my right arm.

All sorts of other injuries resulted, making me almost dead, but Death musta been busy that day. He never got to me. That was 12 years ago and my wife is glad that I lived, but probably more glad that I can’t ride motorcycles anymore. Although, someday when I have the money, I’m gonna modify one that I can ride!

But Buck sounds (and looks) like one tough mofo. And hey, you ride ’em, you wreck ’em, eh?

Geez, Stu, I’m really sorry to hear that and I’m glad you survived. Your readers have certainly benefited from you coming out of it with your humor intact, evident by your blog which I so enjoy reading. It’s funny and intelligent, and while I did read that you’d lost your arm I never dreamed that was how.

Buck also had a brush with death because of a motorcycle accident, when he was 20. Riding in an unfamiliar area, he rode off a cliff then lay at the bottom with countless broken bones until people finally found him. He was officially pronounced dead, twice, after being operated on, then spent months in the hospital in traction. His doctors didn’t think he’d walk again, so they neglected to discuss it with him at all. Being a pig-headed s.o.b. that he is (and was even at 21), he never thought he wouldn’t and eventually taught himself to walk in a friend’s swimming pool (which as a child he’d read that FDR had done, so he figured he could do it, too). Later he had to have surgery again for contracting Osteomyelitis (a disease of the bone marrow) which was a result of the original eight hour operation. As soon as he could afford it and was capable of holding it up at a stop, he bought another motorcycle. And he’s been buying them ever since. There’s been a few more crashes and broken bones, but as I said, he’s too pig-headed to stop riding. He does claim to be an Olympian on crutches.

I”m sure you and Buck would have lots to talk about, including where to see some of the best mods like you’re interested in looking into some day, and I encourage you to write him at buckcycle@aim.com. He highly encourages you to contact him, he just told me to tell you that (and include your address so we can send you some magazines, if you’re interested) He’d love to hear from you. AND ME TOO! I like your blog, Stu, keep writing.